Bloom
by magicas
Summary: Flowers grow where your soulmate was injured.


**_Flowers bloom in the same spot your soulmate was injured._**

Sherlock wakes up panting, sweat rolling down his back in cold shivers. The sheets are tangled at his feet. He kicks at them violently, feeling that if he doesn't get out of bed this instant, he'll be trapped forever. The sheets slump to the floor, and Sherlock begins to breathe easier.

He doesn't feel pain- he never feels pain when it happens. But sometimes, if it happens when he's sleeping, it leads to violent nightmares. He feels _their_ pain, and that's so much worse.

The room is dark, the curtains tightly closed. Sherlock's eyes haven't adjusted to the lack of light, so he trusts his hands to find it. He feels his legs, but nothing seems out of place. There's nothing on his arms or- God forbid- his head. Then, as he reaches to feel his neck, his fingers brush the soft, delicate petals.

Shit.

Luckily, it's not on his neck. This reassurance gives Sherlock the courage to walk into the bathroom and turn on the light.

 _Shit._

It's bigger than any he's ever had before. A giant rose blooms out of his shoulder, right below his collarbone. Thick vines wind around the petals, the thorns stick into Sherlock's own skin. It's huge and gorgeous and frightening. Because how can they survive this? Jesus, they must have been shot or stabbed or… or something with a lot of blood-loss and pain. Jesus, they must be dead.

Sherlock doesn't know what happens if they die. Usually, the flowers decay and fall apart in a couple of days. Mycroft had one on his leg that lasted for a week. But in the end, the petals always fall. Sherlock has heard rumors of flowers never leaving after the soulmate dies. Of flowers that grow inches each year and require upkeep.

"I think it's beautiful," Molly said, during a heated discussion of the rumor one day. "It's like having a piece of your soulmate everywhere you go, forever. Even when they're gone."

Whatever. After years of associating buds with blood and plants with pain, Sherlock was perfectly content with never seeing another flower again.

But this one- this one is unprecedented.

Sherlock doesn't know what to do. He supposes he could call Mycroft, but what would be the point? Mycroft would be stunned for a couple of seconds before calling Sherlock stupid for disrupting him.

"Stupid little brother," he'd say, "it's just a flower. Go to bed."

Sherlock could live without Mycroft's degrading tone as well. Imagine- a world without flowers and "stupid little brother." It would be paradise.

He flicks the bathroom light off and stumbles back into his room, his shoulder hitting the door frame when the sudden darkness throws off his balance. He falls into bed- careful not to dent the rose- and closes his eyes. Not that he'll be able to sleep. Not that he'll get any sort of rest before the sun rises in two, short hours. But closing his eyes _feels_ like he's doing something about the situation, even if it's just ignoring the problem for now.

Sherlock falls back asleep. Instead of nightmares, he dreams of an abandoned battlefield, the ground heavy with footprints and weeds.

XXX

John Watson had been shot.

And _JESUS FUCKING CHRIST THAT HURTS._

He didn't realize the bullet went through his chest- not at first, anyway. He knew this mission was a shitshow, and he knew the odds were greatly against them. But he did his part, he played his role, and what did he have to show for it? A giant fucking hole in his shoulder and a uniform coated in blood.

He wasn't even supposed to be fighting- if you could even call this pathetic scrimmage a proper "fight". He was _doctor_ for Christ's sake. He was supposed to be in the medical tent helping other poor boys stop the bleeding. But this whole mission was a joke, and everyone knew it.

And he was shot.

Straight through the shoulder. Later, he would recall feeling the bullet puncture the shoulder blade on its way out, feeling the agonizing burn of metal through flesh. Yet, in that moment, John's adrenaline kept him from fainting- _thank God_ \- and from realizing the gravity of the situation. It wasn't until he tried to raise his gun in a blur of bullets and smoke when he felt the pain sear down his side.

After, in the medical tent- filled with heavy drugs and stitches- he wonders how big the flower will be.

XXX

Once a week, John is welcomed with tiny daisies in the crook of his elbow.

At first it was once a month. Once a month was fine with John. Maybe his soulmate had such a caring soul that they donated blood whenever they could? That was admirable. Still, an uneasy feeling grew when daisies bloomed. Then it grew to twice a month. Then once a week. Then- during the worst summer John could remember- they grew multiple times a day. He didn't want to think about what his soulmate was doing.

The empty lot behind John's dingy flat has a weed problem. Thousands of daisies sprout underneath rocks and through cracks. Even though it's shorter to cut through the lot when he goes to work, he always takes the long way around. To him, daisies are nothing but a choking infestation.

Sometimes, when daisies grow on his arm, he can feel the phantom pricks of needles.

XXX

They've known each other for a while now. Even done a couple of cases together. That still doesn't explain the tightening in Sherlock's chest when he sees a bomb strapped to John.

He aims the gun at Moriarty without hesitation. He even manages to look _bored_ despite seeing John's desperation in the corner of his eye.

"I will burn the _heart_ out of you," Moriarty tells him, and for the first time Sherlock has no doubt he would strike a match now if he could. For the first time Sherlock feels the complete and utter terror that radiates from the monster in front of him. He keeps his hand steady, but the next line comes out mumbled.

"I've been reliably informed I don't have one."

"We both know that's not quite true."

It's an answer Sherlock wasn't expecting. He blinks, but holds his composure. What game is Moriarty playing at? Where does he think Sherlock's heart-

Oh.

Standing right behind him, weighed down with explosives and trying not to faint, is Moriarty's key to Sherlock.

The snake leaves. Sherlock can't get the bombs off quick enough. Sure enough, John slides down the wall and breathes heavily. Sherlock's sure that if he wasn't so relieved, he really _would_ faint.

The relief doesn't last long.

"Sorry boys! I'm soooo changeable!"

Moriarty keeps talking, but Sherlock can no longer hear him. Instead he locks eyes with John, and without having to say a word, asks the most important question of their friendship.

 _Would you die with me?_

For the second time in one night, Sherlock is surprised by someone's answer: John nods.

He doesn't know it yet, but years later Sherlock will think about the beautiful garden that would have grown if he had pulled the trigger.

XXX

"Are we here?"

"About two streets away but this will do."

"For what?"

"Punch me in the face."

"Punch you?"

"Yes. Punch me in the face, didn't you hear me?"

"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext."

"Oh for God's sakes," Sherlock mutters, and throws the best damn right hook in history. He shakes his hand out, but doesn't prepare for the onslaught he's unleeshed.

John punches him back. Harder.

Soon John has him in a chokehold. They're both bleeding down the face, tearing their jackets against the pavement.

"You were a doctor!"

"I HAD BAD DAYS!"

In the heat of argument and blood and pain, neither of them notice the tiny baby's breath blossoming along their cheekbones.

 _A/N: I thought about writing Reichenbach but that level of angst might kill me._


End file.
